


Quite an Eyeful

by BakerTumblings



Series: Eyes Wide Open [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Military Backstory, Parentlock, Post Season 4, Previous brief John Watson/OFC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-06-26 20:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15670587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: Life on Baker Street for Sherlock, John, & Rosie was very good. They had resolved many of the issues that had plagued them, settled in as parents, and thrived on a more predictable yet very enjoyable routine.Until something very unexpected from John's past surfaced to challenge them.They will, of course, work together and find a way to manage.Together.





	Quite an Eyeful

The messages from Sherlock started just before John's shift at the surgery, where he worked part time, ended.

That was not unusual in the least. Most often when Sherlock knew John was working his texts tended to be of the peculiar, moribund, or damage-control type:

**Did you know that women can see colours better than men because of the cones in their retinas? If one of the women providers in your office identify jaundice or icterus but you can't see it, this explains it, and you should pay attention and proceed accordingly. SH**

**Greg didn't seem to take kindly to my suggestion of what he should do with certain idiots of his NSY staff. If he complains to you, know that I was completely 100% justified in my ire. I don't care that it is anatomically impossible. SH**

**Molly has a package for me. Can you please pick it up on your way home? It will already be in an appropriately sealed biohazard container. Nothing should crawl out of the container this time. At least, it shouldn't. I think. SH**

That last one would have probably made John snort a beverage out of his nose had he been drinking anything at the time. The previous event to which he referred, well, John didn't care to think about that too much.

Sometimes Sherlock's texts were restless, bored, or horny (or a combination thereof):

**You should come home for lunch. There's a video I was watching on YouTube demonstrating something that I'd like to try out on you. And then possibly vice versa. SH**

**I created a spreadsheet on your refractory period with variables including caffeine intake, hours of sleep, number of hours since previous ejaculation, and am most eager to get started on completing it. SH**

Sometimes all he chose to send was  **Vatican Cameos! SH** and John knew it meant be on the lookout for some sort of sneaky or clandestine meddling from Mycroft. Usually Mycroft, but not always. One trek home after one of these texts nothing had happened on the way so John completely let his guard down at the threshold of 221. Until Mrs. Hudson all but swatted him with a spatula as soon as she heard him arrive, muttering feistily over something obnoxious Sherlock had done. John had barely escaped unbruised and fortunately she calmed down by the next time she saw them. The flower delivery from the 'grateful and apologetic tenants of 221B' (or so stated the card) probably'd had something to do with that.

He'd been back, living at Baker Street for several years, finally, and their progression to intimacy had been surprisingly smooth, domestic, and ... well, _satisfying,_ once John'd got past his brief sexual orientation crisis. Intimacy with Sherlock in many ways, John thought, had been like arriving home. The drama of Sherlock's substance relapse and full recovery, the Eurus debacle, the transition from unhappily married to single parent of a quite phenomenal daughter were all behind them, and they were finally in some sort of routine. A good, suitable routine, despite Mycroft's infrequent meddling, Sherlock's unpredictability, and John's mostly-resolved adrenaline penchant. Much as could be expected anyway. They took cases predominantly without risk these days, having drawn quite the connection between family stability and the need to be protective. Their obligations as responsible parents.

Not that everything had been easy. John still had nightmares about all the gun violence, terrible choices, rooftop emergencies, and being chained in a well, but less often as time passed. The flat had been declared a weapon free zone once he and Rosie came to stay. Rosie went to preschool and Sherlock had found that his time spent with her on days she was home tended to be fascinating. John had posted a list of Rules on their refrigerator, that occasionally - such as when he found Sherlock still wearing a toga at dinnertime or when the facepaint he'd let Rosie paint herself with (much to her delight) was discovered at bathtime to be indelible - was amended. And there was the time he'd allowed her free reign of flat with a jar of peanut butter that neither of them liked to talk about.

This day, however, there were only two texts at the end of the day:

**Any chance you can leave work early? SH**

And the next,  **Might be best today to come right home after work. SH**

This one, he did reply to. **I o** **rdered takeaway, Indian, from Best Taste. Stopping to pick it up. Home right afterward.**

**All right, we’ll be waiting so don't dawdle. SH**

**We? Who's we?**

Sherlock didn't answer that one immediately.

**You and Rosie? Or ...?**

**When you get here, then, John. SH**

Cryptic wasn’t that unusual. For all John knew, Sherlock had found and befriended a reptile, rodent, body part, or had taken in a stray of some sort. He shrugged it off but quickened his steps just in case.

While waiting to pick up their dinner, he sent off a response. **Nothing’s going to pounce on me when I come through the door, is it?**

**Not at the moment. There is a guest, however, presently asleep on the couch. And I will save the pouncing for later in the bedroom. Adding a column to the spreadsheet as we speak. Predicting that the catecholamine surge of being ambushed will heighten your sensitivity but shorten your stamina. I look forward to testing my hypothesis. SH**

Asleep on the couch. He sighed, wondering at this latest twist that awaited him. He answered that one, too, mostly curious, with a vague hint of unsettling unease. **Yeah, thanks for the warning...?**

Sherlock didn't respond, so John didn't press. He would find out soon enough. And he was learning to choose his battles with Sherlock, and yes, with Rosie as well.

Choosing his battles included allowing Sherlock the occasional dalliance into something John wouldn't ordinarily have chosen to do, whether in bed or out of it. The spreadsheet on his refractory period was coming along quite well these days and did not seem to be at all affected by variables such as how many grams of protein he'd eaten nor his caffeine intake. Choosing a battle with Rosie of course, was no different than with any other three-year-old.

The tube to the station, crowded but not overly, also not unusual. John was pleased to find that the order was paid (and added to, Sherlock must've wanted extras for either leftovers or experimentation), and he turned his steps toward Baker Street, toward home, ready to find out about the surprise Sherlock alluded to, then hopefully take off his shoes, relax, put his feet up, catch up with each other, play a bit with Rosie before tucking her in for the night. In general, he was ready to have a mundane, relaxing, _ordinary_ evening.

He should have known that the best laid plans ...

The street, the door, not unusual; the steps, also the same as when he’d left. He was momentarily puzzled by the small pair of worn shoes in the hallway, and was frowning a bit as he came through the doorway. Another immediately notable difference, John found, was that Sherlock and Rosie were definitely not alone. One adult, seated. One child, asleep on the couch. Neither familiar. All-righty, then.

It wasn't exactly unheard of for someone to be there. At times, John had found him with a client, a homeless network member, or his brother, who did seem to stop by more regularly since John had moved back in, after Mary’s death and then Rosie’s presence. For some reason, Rosie’d taken to him and he’d returned the affection in spades, enjoying her little three year old antics. He took especial delight when Rosie confounded or otherwise surprised (or aggravated) Sherlock. Rosie and Mycroft were a pair, the two of them, with Rosie bringing out a softness in Sherlock's brother, and they referred to him as Uncle Mycroft. Which made sense, given that she called John daddy of course, and Sherlock papa. Rosie had a delightful relationship with all who knew her, Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, her teacher, and the other kids and moms who attended her preschool or the weekly playgroup John had insisted upon. Every now and again he could hear or see Sherlock in her mannerisms, speech, and occasionally the roll of her eyes. He was just waiting for the unfortunate day when Rosie would call him an idiot. He’d cautioned Sherlock more than once about his overuse of the word particularly as a personal adjective, and even mentioned repercussions. Experiment cease-and-desist consequences. Unpleasant, unsatisfying, sex-withholding ones if necessary, though that had come out of his mouth before he considered that he would suffer for that as well.

Rosie had her colouring books out along with a smattering of toys and was focused and intent on her latest intrigue, something involving rainbows and animals. Sherlock was sitting with the adult at the table, and just like Sherlock'd said, curled up asleep on the couch was a young lad who seemed about five, dark haired, dark complected, thin, small, and sound asleep.

Crossing the room, John ruffled Rosie's hair on his way past to set down the brown bag full of their dinner, nodded at Sherlock, and extended his hand toward the woman at the table. 

“John Watson,” he said at low volume when Sherlock didn't introduce him right away. “Sherlock’s partner.” 

Rosie flipped a page in her book. “Don’t forget about me, dad.”

Grinning, John added easily, “And Rosie’s dad.”

Standing, the woman offered a slim hand in return. She was petite, with big bright eyes and a smile to match. “I’m Madeline Smith. I’m a civilian case worker for the Afghanistan-British Military Liaison office here in London.”

“Oh?” John said, curious, then puzzled, then beginning to be slightly worried. “What can we do for you?” He glanced at the couch, at the sleeping child.

She seemed to be sizing him up, apparently appreciating his directness and opting to plunge right in to enlighten him. They took chairs at the table again where Sherlock was still seated. “Do you remember the woman in this photo, Dr. Watson?” She handed him a candid photo of a woman he hadn’t seen in many years, though he would have remembered her anywhere. The woman in the picture was smiling, though her eyes were tired, and the backdrop seemed to be a rustic setting in Afghanistan.

“That looks like Laila. I never knew her last name. Lived someplace way outside Kandahar, where I was stationed. I ..., uh...” Over the woman’s shoulder, he could see Sherlock blink and his eyes widen, and took note of his body language - stiff, tight lipped, almost a bit anxious. John clipped short whatever else he’d been about to say. Until he knew what the rest of the visit was about, he kept the rest of his recollections to himself, seeing some sort of warning or concern in Sherlock's carriage. “At least I think it might be.”

She nodded, opened a file in front of her. “I’m sorry to tell you that she died a little more than a week ago now, actually. She left behind her son.” She gestured with a nod of her head toward the couch, where the youngster was still asleep. “Sameer. He’s just turned eight.” All eyes rested on John, waiting, the faintest hint of potential energy in the room. He blinked, cast a glance at Sherlock, then the couch, then back at Ms. Smith.

There was a niggling anxiety in the pit of John’s stomach. To fill the awkward silence, he simply echoed, “Eight.” More details flooded his memory then, and he began to do a bit of math. Calculating. Subtracting years, adding months. _Was it ... oh no. Why are they here? It couldn't possibly be, could it?_

_Why else would they be there?_

_Oh my._

“Small for his age, I realise. Nutrition of course partly to blame,” she spoke kindly, matter of factly, and then seemed ready to move on as she pulled a file from the case she'd brought. “Laila’d registered his birth with the government and one of the military offices in country.” Her face turned upward from the paper to John. “She listed you as the boy’s father.”

He kept silent, remembering...

++

The burst of ammo that had been sprayed into the transport ambulance they’d been in was quick, and John could hear yelling in the front by the driver and the navigator, followed by a lurch and then the altered sensation that the vehicle was out of control. It left the road, tilting, careening, coming to a sudden, violent stop against something immovable. The kinetic force is damaging. Slow motion, time suspended, gasps from occupants, the creaking sound of metal, glass, and both human and vehicular groaning. Bodies propelled awkwardly, projectiles and equipment, tossed and slung about.

The first inclination that something was wrong with him personallly was that his arm was not functioning, not responding. It wasn’t until he glanced down at his red - _red_ \- shirt that he began to notice the searing pain. Expanding red. Burning, oozing, deep crimson red. The soldiers they’d been in the process of transporting back to his unit hospital were still. A slow puddle of blood draining from new holes, a slow trickle of life waning. Deathly still, absent breathing, unmoving, colour fading away - pink, pale, ashen, cyanotic, gray. Lifeless. More gunshots sounded, and John’s legs gave out, his body collapsing against one of the stretchers in the back of the truck, his eyes drifted closed, hoping beyond hope that perhaps they would see the blood and give him up for already dead. Footsteps, the awareness of movement, of jostling, and there were words in Dari, angry words exchanged. He could hear no English, expected shortly to feel additional bullets piercing him, perhaps a knife blade, or whatever the mode was that would end his life. He braced himself, closed his eyes, and waited.

Damn.

++

A slim soldier was leaning over him, dark skinned, and of course his initial thought was ‘enemy’ and reflexively he tried to push away while covering, protecting his head. He was mildly surprised at the pain and the hazy, disjointed consciousness. He could see snippets and fragments, vision blurry and shifting, the outline of the twisted carnage of an ambulance, the ground hard under him, the sounds of rustling, footsteps, all of it disconnected and confusing. Glancing down, he could see that a makeshift bandage of folded fabric had been placed over his shoulder, his wound and tied in place. The boy was gesturing for John to follow, to try to help, to move. A few, tight, quiet words that he didn’t understand, but the urgency was quite clearly communicated.  _Hurry! Quick! This way! Silent!_

Not entirely the enemy then? The soldier seemed to be trying to help him. His low-perfused brain did not process well, the dizziness and confusion aggravated by standing, trying to follow directions. Sound was both loud in his ears - pulse rate high - and muffled, distant, nonsense.

On wobbly, weak steps, he was able with assistance to leave the area, gripping the back of the truck as he passed it on unsteady legs. Bodies he saw, a few he recognised, were all gone, obviously and blatantly dead. There was no chest rise, no sign of circulation. O’Brien, Geraghty, he saw, along with a soldier on the stretcher, another crumpled on his side, no sign of the driver. There did not seem to be a survivor among them. And John knew, feeling the blood loss, the weakness, the pain, the tunnel vision and harsh pounding in his ears, he knew that his surviving was not a sure thing either. Not by a long shot.

An arm came up around his waist, a shoulder under his near arm, and he stumbled more than once under cover of night as he moved away from the sound of vehicles and faintly, voices in the distance behind them. There were directions given in a language he didn’t understand. He was barely cognisant of anything beyond the small circle of his own body, the boy helping him, keeping one foot moving in front of the other. Escaping to safety, he hoped.

John could feel his heart pounding, shoulder throbbing and fiery, the ooze of trickling blood pulled downward by gravity along the contour of his chest, and there was tugging and pulling, the boy saying more to John, pleading with him as if he could understand.

Darkness surrounded them, and John’s breath caught, energy spent, dressing having come loose and he was bleeding heavily again. His legs gave out and he could hear the raggedness of his breathing. From behind him he could hear steps, pursuers? he wondered, and dug deep for the last bit of energy, life preservation trumping haemorrhaging. He stumbled, fell to a knee, pressed to his feet again, leaning hard on his benefactor, knowing his weight was a burden, unable to do anything about it. The boots he was wearing were heavy, growing heavier, legs pumping slower, the steps sluggish as if underwater. A trip, a toe catching in front of him, and he went down to both knees this time, had significant trouble standing. The boy was back, lifting and pleading, trying to drag, and John’s arms reached out for help.

And came in contact with breasts. There was confusion, and his vision blurred even worse as it circled, disappearing from the periphery inward, a tunnel, spinning and dizzying. His loss of consciousness was rather puzzling, the soldier, trim with breasts, who was trying for some reason, to save his life.

++

When he awakened, it was on a mat made of reeds and rushes, on the floor, a ratty blanket over him, the smell of an indoor cookstove, a sense of nausea, of weakness, of pain. More confusion, altered sensorium, not enough reserve to even speak. Intending to push upward on his elbow, the pain from the wound drove him back with a gasp, the burning and tearing catching him early in the movement. Almost right away, there was a woman bending over him, hands on his arm, his face, soothing, speaking words he couldn’t understand. Her presence was reassuring that he wasn't alone and didn't seem to be in immediate danger. From her anyway. He could feel a gush from his shoulder, fresh blood over dried blood, new pain in the surface and deeper.

“English?” he asked, and found his voice was barely audible, hoarse.

“Little. Stay.” She pulled up the edge of the dressing. “Hurt.” Her words were thickly accented, not clear, and John had to work hard to try to make sense of it. "Help." Though today she was wearing more form fitting clothing, the eyes were the same. It was definitely, absolutely, the person who had aided him ... was that yesterday? He had no idea.

“I’m a doctor,” John offered, flicking his eyes to the angry, seeping, oozing, bloody mess that used to be his shoulder. The bandage was a mess. She didn't respond to that statement, so John tried again, "Army?" but she only ended up shrugging and shaking her head that she did not know what he was saying.

She handed him a dipper of water from a bucket, and he began to drink, cursing his inability to communicate and tried not to think about all the microbes, bacteria, and parasites probably all native to this source of water that he was ingesting. He knew that without it, he had almost no chance. "Good," she said as he swallowed thickly. "Laila," she offered, tapping herself on the sternum.

"Laila," he repeated, hoping that what he intended as a smile crossed the language barrier. "I'm John." 

"Jawn," she said a few times and he nodded at her efforts. It hurt to breathe, let alone to speak. The burning pain in his shoulder actually made it hard to even think.

Though he wanted to sink back into the oblivion of his injury, he made an attempt to stay awake and he glanced around. The single room hut was small, rustic, but clean. Not urban, then. The absence of other sounds of people, probably extremely remote, not in or all that close to a village. One window without glass or screen allowed light (and whatever flying or crawling livestock wanted) to enter. John handed the dipper back, whispered, "Thank you."

"Hurt," she said again, and began to remove the bloody bandage. He tried to sit up, to fuss, but blood loss and weakness left him rather ineffective, and finally he surrendered as she made some primitive attempts to change the dressing, to clean and rebandage the wound. The pain at each touch was enough for him to moan aloud, and the sound startled her. With wide eyes, she stared, her hand frozen mid-swipe of his bloody shoulder.

"Go ahead," John said, then nodded when she still looked confused. Culturally, he knew the men were stoic, so his expression of pain was probably not only unsettling to her but very unusual. He clenched his jaw and made a determined, silent fist in the hopes that he wouldn't startle her again.

She returned to his wound care, such as it was, but her touch was more timid. A somewhat clean cloth was finally placed over it, and she reused the previous ties, which were stiff with crusted blood from before.

"Thank you," he said again, feeling as if his body was running on fumes, his tank near empty, no reserve. He felt as if he'd just run up a hill in full gear at mid-day, out of breath, heart pounding, and he was exhausted.

She patted his uninjured arm and John lay back down on the thin mat of reeds trying to take stock of his situation.

There was no way to communicate. He was isolated. No one even knew where he'd been taken - rescued - captured? She didn't seem to mean him harm, but that didn't help to clarify his status.

Other than desperate, that much was certain.

No real medicine seemed possible, certainly no antibiotics, no IV fluids, no sterile or even particularly clean dressings. No way to get a message to his unit. No one who spoke English, even. Best he could tell, given that there was no exit wound, in all probability there was still a bullet lodged inside him somewhere.

He pondered the hopelessness of his situation and closed his eyes.

_Please god, let me live._

++

John opened his eyes later to some odd night sounds. 

And some odd awarenesses too. First, there was smouldering heat deep within him, the faintest embers of fire churning in the pit of his belly. If his heart rate had been elevated before, it was moreso now. A gnawing feeling as well, some nausea in waves, came over him too, and he brought a tired and dirty hand up to his face to feel that even his breath was hot. The hand didn't even feel like his own, and it was shaking with weakness and fever. His entire upper left chest felt inflamed from the inside out.

The tiny hut was empty, the window allowing enough moonlight inside that he could see that fact quite clearly. He was definitely alone.

He tried to press up on an elbow, and the sensation of vertigo combined with weakness all but flattened him again. A groan, apparently his own, sounded loud and somehow inhuman in the small room, and he turned his head as he became aware of movement at the doorway.

"Jawn!" came the whisper as Laila must've entered, seen his distress, his condition. She was carrying a few things under cover of night - a few sticks of firewood and a bag of what turned out to be mulberries and some bread.

"Laila," John tried to say, but the syllables ran together in unintelligible mush.

She offered him the bread, and he tried to take a nibble of it, but almost instantly his stomach roiled and he barely lunged toward the doorway before retching violently, then crawling awkwardly a few steps away to vomit a small amount of bile into a bucket she thrust at him, then helping him wipe his mouth on a dingy rag she offered. Shoulder throbbing, he collapsed on his side in a limp, bloody, filthy heap. A few moments later, there was a fresh, cool cloth on his face. Concern on Leila's face was obvious as she wiped his brow, his cheeks, and lifted the corner of the makeshift bandage. She'd no sooner pulled the corner away when the smell hit John's nose.

Putrid.

God no. Infected already, he could tell. Fever, pain, swelling, foul drainage, pungent odour. 

"Come," Laila said a few times before John could make sense of the word. She wedged herself under his arm and urged him back toward the mat. "Stop," she then gestured once he was laying on his back. "Stop."

And then she was gone. John closed his eyes, wondering if it would have been more merciful to have been fatally wounded in the back of the ambulance rather than suffer and die days later.

++

Vague snippets of memory. Another stranger - she'd gone for help, a local healer, he realised in a transient moment of clarity in the midst of the feverish haze. Other dark eyes, glittering, poking, a burning and stinging wetness over his wound, two pairs of hands holding him down. A different dressing, something herbal and probably no more clean than the bullet that had pierced him. Night. Blackness. Hands holding his head, only Laila, forcing him to drink something bitter, salty, vile. Giving him no choice. Daytime again. Sweating. Getting weaker. Nighttime. A few spoonfuls now and again with a mash, warm, cornmeal base, and a stroking of his throat until he swallowed. Too weak to vomit, the liquids of his stomach giving him reflux, his supine position not helping, too weak to protest, too uncaring as he lay, knowing he was on a slippery slope with a bad outcome a very real possibility.

Other vague snippets, nightmares, of fear that he was truly dying, of his unit, of Laila. Laila bargaining with him, bringing him a change of clothing, helping him to the privy outside, Laila sleeping without blanket on the hard floor while he had the minimally more comfortable mat and the cover. Laila, brushing her hair. Laila humming to herself, fixing tea, preparing food, assisting him to drink, cleaning the hut. Cleaning him. Caring. The fever raged on.

Dressing changes were a multi-sensory, miserable event. Pain, touch, cleaning, tying, wiping, pressing. The sight of swollen and red tissue, yellow drainage. The odour of the herbal dressing plus the drainage. John wondered idly in those few coherent moments, what herbs Laila's friend brought and if they were helping at all. Fever still raged, and rigours set in. One day, there was a new compound, something ground up and acrid, a paste. Though he tried to turn his head, she stuck with him, exhorting him in a language he didn't understand to do something he quite didn't want to do. Eventually, exhausted, John's betraying body finally must have surrendered, no fight left, and the compound went in his mouth to be swallowed down.

Had he been better hydrated, there might have been frustrated, angry tears.

The next morning, when he awakened, he was quite shocked.

The fever, at least temporarily, seemed to be gone. Or at least, settled down to a simmering baseline. Also surprising, he was hungry.

++

He still felt as if he were running on empty, though the deep, internal fire of elevated body temperature and infection occasionally seemed to wax and wane. Intermittently there were a few hours when he felt a little better; other times he knew he was confused, dreaming sick dreams mixed with fever, delusions, and his own perception of altered reality. The shoulder wound continued to drain foul, yellow/green, though it hadn't got worse over the last days. He tolerated a bit more food that she shared with him, and was able to sit up for longer periods without becoming lightheaded. Laila watched him, smiled at him more fondly, interested and curious, her dark eyes seeking him out.

"English?" she asked one night, handing him a dog-eared copy of a school primer. The pictures and words were in her own language but she held out a worn pencil and repeated the question.

If nothing else, it gave them a few hours of something to pass the time, him writing slowly and then pronouncing the English words under the pictures in the book. He made an attempt to stumble through her words, too, but it was futile, so they kept more focused on her request as they pointed to pictures. Chair, table, plate. Dress, trousers, hat. School, work. Boy, girl, family, baby. Car, bicycle. Hand, foot, head, nose, eye. Gun, knife, arrow. Flower, tree, sun, grass. Run, eat, sleep, work.

A few times he fell asleep during the lesson only to awaken later by himself, pillow and blanket tucked in around him. Or to find her watching him, smiling when she noticed that he was awake.

Slowly and carefully, she recopied his words, the letters duplicated then triplicated in her book. She copied words from his uniform, from his dog tags, from the tattoo on his calf.

That night, John watched her extinguish the candle, and he struggled to his feet. His legs were still barely able to carry him, still there was no muscle strength, flat gone stamina. He was still weak as a kitten, but approached her, the area she'd been spending her nights. He sat down, pointed to the mat. "Sleep." She shook her head. "You sleep there," he tried again, pointing, this time taking her arm and trying to guide her there. "I will sleep here," he said, indicating the floor.

"No," she said, shaking her head, and then followed it with a few sentences he didn't understand. John supported his weak arm with his good arm, taking the weight and the stress off his shoulder. "No, hurt," she said again, gesturing and pushing with her hand, her words, that he should take the mat.

"Screw it," John muttered finally, pushing up to his feet again, too tired to argue any further with her or try to convey what he wanted. He reached for and took her hand, decisively, leading her the few metres to the mat, where he sat then tucked in gingerly on his side, pulling her along with him. Their heads ended up on the same thin pillow, and he drew the thin, holey blanket over them both.  In the faint moonlight, he could see that her eyes were huge, blinking, watching him, on full alert. "Sleep," he said finally, patting her arm, and letting his own eyes close.

"Sleep," she finally said when John opened his eyes again to see what she was doing. She touched the pillow, spoke a word, and waited. 

"Pillow."

She repeated it, then they did the same with the blanket. She reached out for his hair, touching it lightly. He put his hand over hers. "Hair," he said quietly, then did the same to hers. Her smile was small but tender and kind.

"Thank you," she said, having heard him use the phrase frequently (once he was well enough for coherency of thought). He said it often when she did something for him - help with moving, changing dressings, offering water or food, support while standing, holding the door while walking, holding him so he could lean hard on her when minimal exertion wore him out. Thank you - demonstrated, exampled, mimicked. "Sleep," she said then finally along with a phrase John didn't understand.

"Yes," he said with a tired smile. "Sleep."

It wasn't a very long time before John, awakened to one of his much more alert/less feverish moments, became aware of several things. Laila'd turned on her side away from him at some point during the night, and John had managed to end up the big spoon behind her. His body was quite personally aware of her proximity, and he eased away slightly before his erection could startle her. Another thing he could hear in the distance was the dull drumming sounds of a distant sandstorm. He'd seen a few bad ones on the base and knew they could get quite violent and strong, dumping sand in rivulets, burying and destroying things in its path - natures sandblasting. The moonlight that had been visible earlier was now almost completely gone, obscured almost certainly by the cloud of wind-blown sand, and there was a whistling hiss that seemed to be growing louder as the wind force began to escalate. And get closer.

The window, open as it was, would be no protection. The doorway, with its canvas covering frayed at the edges, wasn't going to be much better. Both of them rose, John quite a bit slower, to prepare best they could. John gestured at the table, and the two of them moved the small furnishing to help secure and block the door opening, and John helped her best he could one-armed and exhausted, to ease it into place. The window was harder, but together they found a few larger pieces of fabric and a piece of plastic to hang and secure. It was, John considered, better protection than nothing. Hopefully.

For a while, they sat up together while John tried to catch his breath and recover from even that minimal activity. The wind grew in intensity, blowing sideways and shrieking around the corners of her hut, whistling through the area. She had no neighbours close, but the trees and vegetation positively _howled and moaned_ in the vicinity. The sound of the sand hitting the walls, the roof, the loud clicking, pounding, hammering, was relentless. The sand was blown in, the wind sneaking in through nooks and crannies of the structure. Growing louder and stronger, the storm intensity increased again, blowing fiercely through each opening the wind found, and eventually where they lay John rolled so that the wind was against his back, shielding her with his body best he could from at least the direction of the gusting. Tiny particles of sand blew around them. He could feel faint tremors run through her as the screaming wind continued. Hoping to offer some sort of protection, or at least the assurance that she wasn't alone, he wrapped an arm around her as carefully as he could.

Huddled together, neither slept as the storm continued, a deep rumble of thunder audible now and again, the passage time of time marked by a change in lighting as day crept in, dark clouds keeping the sunlight from shining through. Later, turning about so that they were facing each other, she wriggled about until they were nose to nose, watching him with wide eyes. She pulled the blanket up beyond their faces, and it did offer some protection. It also was a rather intimate moment, and she brought her hand to John's jawline, pulled him closer, her fingers confident, leaning nearer and kissed him. Initially resisting, he frowned a bit, tried to push her away, though the rest of his body was certainly noticing, thickening, beginning to fill. "Please," she whispered, along with a few other utterances of encouragement that he didn't have to understand to comprehend that she was asking, and she was determined. Their hands fumbled with clothing, a few caresses, the blanket shielding them from wind and sand. His shoulder burned a bit until he rolled onto his back, unable to hold himself upright. "Ah, John," she said, her touch becoming bolder as she leaned over, then farther down, her gaze watching her hand, desire evident for them both - his body, her face. Her own clothing, mostly removed - his lowered, and she pulled the blanket around her as, face to face again, she lowered herself against him, around him.

John's eyes were wide as there was resistance, incredible tightness yet still she continued, her body trembling, finally, fully, gasping sharply in obvious discomfort as her body allowed something it never had allowed before. A sudden release, a faint cry, and then her eyes found his, seeking, searching, looking for his reaction. His eyes were wide, watching her, both of them panting a little.

"God, no," he breathed as they both stayed still, the enormity of the moment not lost on them. "Oh, Laila," he said quietly, his good hand coming up to reverently touch, caress her face. There were no tears, but she was somber a moment longer. The wind blew, their eyes met, and after a few moments, she smiled again, tenderly, softly, and began to move, slowly and carefully at first, then with more certainty. He hesitated at first, trying to be noble and allow her to pull completely off, but her mind was made up and she was having no parts of moving away. It was an overwhelming, sweet moment, her dark eyes shining, her expression tender, her hands, her movements that were naive and obviously unsure. But her face and her body determined as well.

She smiled, nodded, pleading with her eyes. He smiled in return, whispered her name. She whispered his back to him.

Nature took over, bodies responding to touch and chemistry, of fear driving togetherness, of finding connection and grounding. Their movements became less clumsy, overcoming her inexperience and his injury, and at his sharp thrust upward as he reached his peak, his gasp of satisfaction that was only slightly muffled by the blanket and the wind, she finally slowed and moved to settle next to him, their bodies separate but touching. Her smile spoke volumes, and he let his eyes drift closed momentarily, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead. She exhaled, shuddering, her lips against his very stubbled jaw. Replacing and tugging clothing back into place, they got comfortable, sated. He stayed on his back and she tucked into the uninjured shoulder, his arm holding her close, the blanket pulled up, her nose into his neck.

Wind still howled outside, the noise catching the corners of the house, occasionally changing pitch along with direction, driving more bits of sand into the hut but the force was abating, resolving, more gaps in between gusts and less noise, less velocity. Pressing close, heartbeats thudding, they clung. And then finally, they slept. And awoke again as a branch struck the roof a bit later, for another round, John holding her close once more, sliding and gentle and tender. Her surprised cry of pleasure was the catalyst that pushed him over the edge, his body managing to perform again despite his weakened state. The storm continued, then lessened and settled, leaving the two of them, clinging, John sweaty, pale, and tired. Clothing had barely been straightened when, exhausted, he fell asleep again tucked up against her in an easy embrace.

The next morning, Laila was roused not by the sound of the wind or of storm damage but by the sound of an approaching vehicle, sounding two short horn blasts.

Laila disentangled herself first, seeing John's eyes were still closed, and scurried cautiously to the partially open remnants of her front door.

It was an army jeep on patrol, looking for one Captain John Watson, MD.

She spoke, watching warily, "John." There were more spoken words, and she moved to his side, where he moaned as she called his name again and approached him. The horn blasted again, but John's brain wasn't comprehending, and he uttered a simple groan, a growl of pain and distress. The shaking, both from her hand on his arm attempting to awaken him, and from within him, was not enough to bring him to coherency. There were voices again, and footsteps growing closer, and John's eyes opened, but on closer inspection, she could see that they were glazed, his cheeks flushed, skin sweaty.

He was hyperthermic, barely responsive, and going into shock when she hastily summoned the soldiers to the doorway, pointing, and then watched as two corpsmen carried him to the waiting vehicle. Outside Laila's hut, small clouds of dusty sand lingered in the air for a short while after they'd driven quickly away.

++ 

The smiling woman in the sitting room in 221B looked at John once more before pulling out the photocopy of the birth registry, handing it over. “I can’t help but note that you did not immediately deny that it was a possibility, that he could, at least in theory, be biologically yours.”

"Yeah, I uh," and he looked over where Rosie was paying them absolutely no attention and where the boy was asleep. “I knew Laila, his mum, or at least someone who looked like the woman in the photo.”

 _“Knew,”_ Sherlock repeated, drawing out the word a little.

“Yes, all right?” John tried to keep the snippiness from his voice. "After the attack, she ... rescued me, took me in, took care of me when I was feverish and such. So yes, I stayed with her and ..."

"And you were ...?" Sherlock dangled the unasked question without speaking of the act, given the presence of others in the room.

"Yes, we were." John swallowed, still reeling from this particularly unexpected revelation. "The wound infection was bad, had gone septic, and I stayed with her probably a week. I could barely eat, move. I had no idea where I was, where my unit was or the nearest base." His eyes flicked back to Laila's photo that was still on the table. "She was ... _kind_ and I have no idea to this day why she bothered to help me. By the time my unit came looking for me, I was really quite out of it again. One of the doctors ... well, healer more likely, in a nearby village had helped her with some herbs, dressings, and best I can guess he must've pointed my search and rescue team in her direction. I was sent on to a hospital for surgery once I was stable enough. From there, medical discharge. Never made it back. Never heard from her again.”

They were quiet, and Sameer continued to sleep on. “I never knew. About him." John glanced over at Ms. Smith, who seemed a little stunned at that. "And I know it doesn’t sound all that sane, but it was ..." John trailed off, remembering. In the moment, back in the hut, it hadn't seemed quite as crazy as it did now looking back. "It just sort of ... happened."

Sherlock returned to the table with tea for them all, and John gratefully took a sip. The quiet about the table was punctuated only by Rosie's working a puzzle and talking quietly to a stuffed animal a few feet away from where Sameer was still asleep.

Eventually, John knew it was time to address the actual purpose for their visit.

"I assume he has no other family?” John asked.

“He has no one else.” The woman’s solemn statement gave John more reason to pause. “He was unsafe in the village where they'd moved. His mother protected him, but she herself was an outcast, most certainly disowned by her family; there were very few options open to her.”

"For having a child?"

"It is their culture." She smiled sadly and glanced around briefly before sighing with resignation. "There is acceptance and tolerance here, but not where they lived. And he was at extra risk because of, well ... Just _because_."

"I don't understand." John offered, frowning in speculation as he glanced over at where Sameer slept on. "I wonder why."

Sherlock had an odd look about him, and nodded. "Yes, I can believe that you wonder. There is however no doubt in _my_ mind as to why." His cryptic comment was odd, puzzling, and punctuated with a short chuckle. John gestured at him, silently requesting an explanation. “You’ll see, shortly.”

The woman spoke then, interrupting that train of thought, addressing the present more than John's question. “He would likely have been in physical peril, perhaps enslaved or ...” She told them in a very quiet voice. "Or worse."

“That's terrible, it makes no sense, though, why ...” John was still puzzled. “They have orphanages there. I remember them. And there have to be a lot of children left without parents or abandoned, or otherwise in need.”

Some street noise trickled into the flat, some distant shouting, a horn, usual city noise that John and Sherlock wouldn't have noticed except for the way it disrupted their sleeping visitor. Sameer stirred, turned on the couch then, his hair flopping forward as he startled awake. Alarmed, he glanced around for Ms. Smith, then sat bolt upright, turning away from the table where everyone sat. Neither John nor Sherlock wanted him to panic, and so they stayed where they were as the woman moved to his side, close, conversing in a rapid and low voice with him. He kept his head bowed, staring at the floor and answering quietly, and there was a moment shortly in to their conversation where he became emotional, tearful even, and she hugged him.

“Dr. Watson?” she said quietly to get his attention, even as she held Sameer’s hand and patted the seat across from them with her other. _Come, sit,_ she was saying.

He rose then slid down to where she was indicating, without saying anything. Sameer was so tense he was very faintly shaking at John’s close proximity.

There was a soft, kind-toned utterance from the woman again, and John’s heart went out to the boy as his head shook ‘no’ even as he sat there. 

The little he remembered of the language was limited to hello and bathroom and beer, a few medical terms such as pain or medicine, neither of which was especially helpful at present. There hadn't been time to assimilate much else. Even Laila, who'd been motivated to learn English, was limited to those few words John had written in that primer book. She'd been fascinated by the letters in general - in the book, on his uniform and dog tags, his military ID card, copying them and speaking them, along with her own name that John'd helped her write. John had taken the pencil once, after that, and tried to draw a picture of Laila by where he'd written her name, that had only resulted in both of them giggling at his terrible, inartistic efforts.

He did remember hello, however, and spoke that aloud to Sameer, who nodded without looking up. Ms. Smith cleared her throat, spoke quietly to him, and in response, he eventually whispered the word back to John.

“How do I say it’s nice to meet you?” John asked, and when he was told, he tried it a few times, tongue wrapping awkwardly around the foreign sounds, spoke them to Sameer.

The words were echoed back, in a small yet audible voice, and John watched as, with some cuing from the woman, Sameer began to raise his hand to shake hello. Carefully, gently, John shook it, let it go again. Sameer's head lifted, slowly and somewhat reluctantly, and John watched as the top of his head became forehead and eyebrows, nose visible, then his chin, but his eyes were still downcast. His long eyelashes raised as if in slow motion, and he timidly, _finally_ , looked up at John.

While he had questioned the boy’s safety in the village, wondered why his family had turned their backs on both he and his mother, why a desperate Laila had ultimately contacted the military, why an orphanage was not a feasible option, it did actually become crystal clear a moment later, as Sameer raised those wide, solemn, serious eyes to look square on at John Watson for the very first time.

_Dear lord._

Sameer had typical Afghan features, dark complexion, dark straight, thick hair, slim build. 

But his eyes? 

Oh, his _eyes._   

His eyes were John Watson’s through and through - deep blue, oddly, strikingly pale against his darker skinned face. They were bright and brimming with unshed tears, fearfully watching John, and with an intensity that was unqualifiable. Sameer trembled under John's scrutiny, and then demonstrated every tell in the book that he was about to bolt, hide, unable to hold up under the pressure he was feeling.

"Hey," John whispered, sliding closer and coming to his knees on the floor in front of Sameer so that he had to look up to see him, less threatening, less everything. "It's okay."

The kindly spoken words, whether they were understood or not, triggered Sameer to squeeze his eyes shut and turn his head away, avoiding everything in front of him. The unspilled tears then trickled down his cheeks.

With a questioning glance at Ms. Smith, one that sought approval or permission, John slid his right hand toward Sameer's face to bring his hand along the boys cheek. When Sameer didn't immediately pull away, John left it there a moment, and then felt almost a nuzzle against it. Sameer, despite his fright, was seeking John out, seeking comfort in human touch. "It's okay, please don't be afraid," John said again, brushing the track of the tear he could reach. Ms. Smith translated the phrase quietly. Sameer seemed to rest his head against John's hand, though his eyes were still closed and his face turned away.

John let him, feeling him relax slightly, and after a moment of that, he began to turn Sameer's face back toward him. Briefly, there was a hint of resistance, a slight shaking of the head as Sameer offered a silent but weak protest. John pressed a little firmer, sensing Sherlock's approving nod from his peripheral vision, said again, "It's okay. Please?" he asked quietly, "Let me see?" He heard Ms. Smith speak quietly again.

This time, Sameer seemed to summon some courage, and without further prompting, with quiet resolve he raised his head to look back at John again. Blue stared at blue, one solemn and nervous, the other calmer but still uncertain. John smiled broader, gently letting his thumb again brush against Sameer's face before lowering his hand. John shifted a little on the floor but stayed where he was.

John’s eyes. He had  _John's eyes._

The older, original pair of John’s eyes snapped a short glance to Sherlock’s, understanding what the earlier chuckle had been about as the pieces fell into place, then back very quickly to the boys face. The striking feature made him quite different, quite a standout, an obvious genetic aberrancy from the rest of his country's residents. “It’s very nice to meet you,” he said again, smiling, with more sincerity, clasping his hand and then repeating it in probably slow and somewhat fractured Dari.

Sameer echoed it back to him, solemnly. John could see the vulnerability in every breath, every cell, every seeking look.

John could feel so many things, his mind whirling, questions to ask, things to say, reassurances to offer. After licking his lips a bit nervously, he turned to Ms. Smith. “Can you translate a bit for me please?” John asked, and when she immediately agreed, he smiled sadly, kept his gaze and focus and kindly as he could on Sameer, speaking to him directly. “I’m very sorry to hear about your mother.” He paused long enough for her to translate.

“She was a very kind woman, and helped me when I was hurt.” Again, a pause.

“I remember her beautiful smile, and her giggle.” Pause. "I remember she was a hard worker." Sameer nodded once that phrase had been translated, and there was the faintest of smiles just beginning to show on his face once he'd heard the words in Dari. He obviously agreed.

Though John had no facts, he felt it necessary to address the boy personally, to acknowledge the hurt and the loss. "I'm sure she loved you very much." Ms. Smith's affect even gentled, softened, and spoke the words to Sameer with a quiet touch to his hand. Sameer's face twitched in response, his mouth moving just a little in what could have developed into a sob in the making.

“It's been a long time ago since I've seen her, but I remember she always wore a gold ring with a star and a moon on it.” John could recall her hands working, holding a bandage, offering him food or drink. Pause. This time there were a few words spoken in response, and John stared hard at Sameer and he watched as his fingers crept up to his collar. “Do you remember it too?”

From within his shirt, he slid out a gold chain with the very ring John had referred to. Another few words were exchanged between Sameer and the woman, and she told John, “He says that she never took it off. It was very special to her.” The woman's tone was quiet. "He says she was wearing it when she died."

John's heart ached for the pain of the young boy, for his loss, for the hard, traumatic experiences he'd endured already. "I'm glad you have it to remember her by. To keep her close to you."

Sameer tucked it back inside his collar, but his hand continued to trace it overtop of his shirt. He asked something of Ms. Smith, who spoke to him, including a few words of English in the middle of another sentence. With a cautious glance in John's direction, Sameer then shyly and timidly repeated the phrase to John, "Thank you."

Sameer and the case worker spoke then, a little bit longer, and John waited patiently as there was something of a discussion without a care that they were ignoring the rest of them. Their conversation was rather quickly back-and-forth, seeking clarification, a pointed question from her, a short answer from him. It was obviously important.

“I’m supposed to tell you, John,” she began, and her affect was guarded and carefully neutral, giving indication to both John and Sherlock that they should also guard their responses, “that his mum taught him a few English phrases but that he is too nervous to remember them now. He says he is willing to work hard in exchange for a small spot on your floor. In the corner, he says I'm to tell you.” Her voice was choking up a little, but she steeled herself and continued, "And that he can clean, will learn to cook, do laundry or other tasks." All eyes including Sameer's were on her, and she went on. "I'm supposed to tell you that he says he won't eat much and would like to keep learning English please." The adults could tell that she was working hard not to let her emotion show on her face, so she kept stoic as she did then explain, “It sounds like his mum had been learning English and hoping for a new job when she got sick. And everything changed."

The physician in John couldn't stop from asking in a low tone, "What did she die of? Something infectious, or --?" He shot a glance at Sherlock, knowing that he was probably wondering too. The answer would matter quite a bit, actually, but there wasn't long to speculate on any of the options before Ms. Smith answered.

"Cancer. Abdominal cancer, apparently. Advanced stage." John nodded, slightly relieved for Sameer's sake that it was not infectious, though the death was still obviously tragic. Sameer had enough to deal with without concern for his own health. From an infection standpoint, John, of course had been tested a few times since then, after various injuries, after Mary, before he and Sherlock ...  Ms. Smith continued, interrupting his runaway thoughts, although she knew the motivation behind the question. "Mandatory entrance physical's already been done. Other than being in a very low percentile for both height and weight, he's actually quite healthy." She gave him a small smile, and then grew serious again. "From what I can tell, knowing he'd be alone, his mum was preparing him for life without her. I get the impression some sort of house servant, I'm not sure, though she made sure to contact the military base in Afghanistan. Which started the ball rolling with finding you."

"Who does he think I am?" John asked quietly.

"She told him who you are, that you're his father. Not much else, but that much he does know."

Sherlock spoke then. "What did you tell him? About his request to stay here, I mean." John and Sherlock exchanged a look.

"That it's too soon to make plans."

 _A small spot on the floor._  It was a shocking request, actually. Sameer asked for a small spot on the floor in exchange for minimal food and to learn English, and offered to offset his expenses by working. At age eight. John thought of the families, the children and adolescents who came through the surgery and all the entitlement, benefits, and privileges that they either expected or had already been given. First world problems, indeed, needing the latest technology or private education. He recalled the hut with no running water or power. Or a windowpane.

She continued. "I know I don't have to explain what that would likely have meant had he stayed over there." John did and nodded, swallowing hard, recalling that to the Afghan, family honour was paramount, and that to be dishonoured was beyond not tolerated - it was punished. He recalled hearing of stonings, and he also knew prostitution for the destitute was a means of survival. Child trafficking and forced labour was a serious problem there, John recalled. "When we got word of his situation, it was decided at least to reach out to the RAMC. To locate you. It seems that his mother wanted him to at least have an option. Just in case. I'm sure she was desperate, and she must've known she didn't have much time."

John could feel his throat choking up, emotional and horrified by what could have happened to him, and he looked over at Sherlock, who was staring back at him already, nodding his head. John was puzzled, but before he could ask, Sherlock shrugged and then spoke. “Of course, John. Obviously.”

He touched the woman’s arm again, seeking interpretation again with Sameer. "I'm sorry I didn't know about you before today." He glanced almost helplessly at Sherlock, hoping for words to make any of this easier, but found none. "I hope we can get to know each other a little bit." Sherlock nodded at that, and John watched Sameer's face as the sentence was translated for him. There was a questioning look that passed between them all, and John felt it best to move forward. “This is my daughter, Rosie. She is three years old.” Pause. Sameer looked over at Rosie, studying her carefully before turning back to John to look at him deeply and seriously for a moment and back again a few times. John could tell he was aware of how different his eyes were and was looking at John's eyes as well as his daughters. “Rosie’s eyes are more coloured like her mums, mostly green. Her mum died too,” John said and Ms. Smith translated. He thought about sugar-coating it, but it seemed that the truth was still best. “Your eyes are like mine, aren’t they? A _lot_ like mine.” Pause, an answer. A clarification, another longer answer.

“He says yes, and it is a relief to be somewhere his eyes, his eye colour, won’t get him into trouble.” She glanced over to Sherlock, back to John, and added on her own, “I think he's been taught not to make eye contact. I get the impression life has not been kind to him because he looks different.”

Rosie shifted over so that she was right next to Sameer, opened her colouring book to a dual page that was empty, set the crayons between them, and touched his arm then pointed at the page in front of him. The boy looked up, glancing at Ms. Smith as well as at John, a questioning expression. John smiled and nodded, and in short order with not a word exchanged, they began to colour for a bit. Sameer hung back, cautious, at first, watching Rosie, waiting to see what she did, what was expected of him.

Restless, suddenly full of energy and needing a little outlet for it, John stood up to make a small circle of the room. He stopped behind Sherlock, his eyes sad and heart heavy as he felt compelled to explain. “I never knew, of course. I had no idea.” Sherlock brushed his hand over John’s as it rested on the back of the chair. John continued, “I did try once, to find out what happened to her. To say thanks for helping me. By the time I asked, and found someone who knew where I'd been found, the area had been shelled again, and best anyone knew, she was long gone. It was too late. Of course, I never thought..." and his sentence trailed off. "Had I known, I would have tried harder. Somehow." He brushed his hand absently over the now very well healed wound, the surgical scar where the infection had been drained, the bullet removed. "I got sent home from the evac hospital as soon as I was able to travel." A sad smile, as he watched Rosie pointing to the box of crayons, chatting with Sameer and making sure he knew he could use them, even suggesting non-verbally that he should change colours. Sameer studied the large variety, chose one, glancing over at the adults from time to time. "I had no idea," John said again, wistfully.

“Of course you didn’t.”

“So now what?” John asked, then cutting to the chase, turned to the liaison. “What exactly are you asking of me?”

“Right now I'm not asking for anything."

"There has to be something." John could feel frustration mounting. "I mean, obviously there is. You brought him here."

"Well, honestly, there _might've_ been, but that was when I thought you knew about him. I didn't realise you were unaware. Details, as you can imagine, the lack of records, language barrier, the timing of, well, really _all_ of this, make some things impossible to come by." She sighed. "I mean, it's clear, he couldn't stay safely in his own country." 

"Yes, obviously." John’s breath heaved a bit at the words. “But what's next? For him.”

"He will be assigned to a refugee specialist, a specific case worker who takes these situations and knows the legalities and resources available."

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, then straightening up. "What's the precedent?" Both Sherlock and Ms. Smith blinked at the question, turning curiously to John as he asked again, "What usually happens?"

"I have no idea. This is unusual, perhaps a first, so much as I know anyway." Ms. Smith told him. "So there is no precedent. As his case manager, I can keep you informed if you like. There might be a local way to help find placement for him."

"And tonight?" John asked, sitting down again as he watched Sameer take cues from Rosie on colouring, but then do his own thing too. At three, Rosie of course tended to be all over the place, outside the lines, bold strokes, without a care for the final product. Sameer, however, was pressing gently, following the picture, shading lightly. At least for the moment.

“I’ll take Sameer to the emergency foster shelter," Ms. Smith said low. "There are a couple places that take emergency referrals for children. Hopefully they will be able to take him for one night. Then tomorrow --"

“Emergency foster shelter.” John echoed the words, feeling his stomach churn again at the thought, particularly if he was just going to be uprooted again the following day.

"This shelter," Sherlock said quietly. “He hasn't been there yet?”

“No. Plane just landed today, late this morning. A driver and I met him at Heathrow. His bag - what little he has - is in the boot of my car.”

“Please don’t take him anywhere else, I dare say he’s been through enough,” John said, suddenly, plunging ahead boldly. “If it’s all right with --” he gestured at Sherlock.

“Of course it is. I already said as much.” Sherlock spoke as if it were no big deal, nothing more serious than where they wanted take-away from, or what brand of tea to buy, or what to watch on the telly.

John sighed as he could feel the anxious knot in his gut begin to loosen. To Ms. Smith, he stated, "He can stay here, at least for ... We'll figure out something."

Resolutely, firmly, Sherlock added quietly, "And it won't be a small spot on the floor." With a burst of affection at Sherlock's words, John waited until Sherlock looked over at John, their gazes meeting, holding.

The case manager glanced between them again, shaking her head slightly as she searched for words at the surprising statements. "I'm fairly certain no one in my office, no one in _any_ office, will give permission for that." Both John and Sherlock stared, and she felt the need to add, "Not at this stage of the game anyway."

"This is no game," Sherlock groused.

"Figure of speech," John muttered, and then could see Sherlock bristle even more, and put his hand on Sherlock's arm. "It's okay, we'll..."

Sherlock tried again, cutting John off. "You said there was no precedent," he replied, a little icily. "So make an exception to the bureaucratic red-tape and do what's best for the boy. He'll be safe here. While the rest gets sorted."

Her lips thinned out as she thought about it, the reasons and rationale and arguments against their request obviously flitting through her mind. John wanted to add to Sherlock's quite succinct statements, but kept quiet, and it seemed after a moment that she was at least considering it. Or at least, not immediately rejecting it. "I'm not sure, but ...  Provided Sameer is willing, too. I think, maybe, for tonight at least..."

Sherlock nodded. “We understand what we're asking. I'm sure everything is going to be easier tomorrow when offices are open and fully functional. My brother holds a minor governmental position ..."

"Sherlock's brother _is_ the British government," John interjected, though Sherlock didn't miss a beat.

"... and can help expedite clearances on this end.” It was not unusual for Sherlock to multi-task, and in a flash he had the laptop open and was searching for something, his fingers flying over the keys, the mouse, even as he was speaking.

“Whatever it takes, I’m willing to at least try,” John said to her. He wanted to add, _It seems I owe them that much,_ but didn't.

“John, I hear you, and it’s commendable, really,” she was saying, “but you have no idea what you're in for, what he needs, and he’s just meeting you. There will likely be some significant challenges. For him, for all of you." She looked between them. "But especially for him."

John and Sherlock glanced at each other again, knowing that they had already faced, survived, and overcome many challenges over the years already. Sherlock turned back to the laptop, then, smiling a small triumphant smile to himself as he focused on the screen.

"Plus," Ms. Smith added, "you don’t speak the language.”

With a brief, quiet cry of 'aha!', Sherlock then turned the laptop around, where he’d managed to connect to a Skype translation service. A few clicks, a payment verification, a few more buttons, and a list of languages appeared. "What language does he speak?"

John and the liaison both spoke softly in unison. “Dari.”

 _Click._ A circling hourglass as the connection went through. Moments later, there was a dark complected woman in a blazer on the screen welcoming them to translation services and introducing herself as their Dari interpreter for the session.

Sherlock addressed the interpreter on the screen. “I have a young boy from Afghanistan here, name is Sameer. Can you please tell him welcome to London."

From the screen there was an affirmative response, and Ms. Smith beckoned Sameer to come closer to face the computer while the translator spoke to him. He listened, and answered, the interpreter going between them as Sameer responded with a polite version of thank you for meeting me.

Sherlock continued, "Please ask him if he's hungry, and what he likes to eat for dinner."

There were a few questions back and forth, then he went back to Rosie and the colouring book. From the web application, the translator on the screen said, “He says he likes most food and would be willing to try almost anything, and that yes, he is very hungry tonight.”

“A boy after his father’s heart, yeah, John?" Sherlock asked John in a stage whisper, with a slightly inappropriate chuckle and a nudge at John's foot with his own. Recovering, he continued, addressing the computer, "Thank you, I think that will be all,” Sherlock said low, "for now, anyway," then disconnected the Skype call. “I think, if John is willing and Sameer is as well, that we can probably communicate all right until he learns a bit of English and we figure things out.”

She looked unconvinced. “I will take him out in the hall to talk privately, just to ensure he is not swayed by your presence. You realise he may choose to go with me.” Before she even stood up, though, she turned to John again. “You’ll want to confirm paternity, I would imagine.”

Sherlock answered for him, “As a formality, at some point, I would say. Although,” he said drawing the word out. When both John and the woman turned to him, he was intently watching the kids and smiling broadly. Explaining then, he began, "John's genetic hunger issues aside," and at that, John cleared his throat in mock annoyance, "and if John's eyes weren't enough proof, there's other commonalities. Look at them, see it?” he said, with gentle awe, indicating where Rosie and Sameer were both colouring. Both with their heads angled just a few degrees to the left. Where the same dimple rested in the cleft of their chins. And where, as if on cue, both of them raised up their faces to look at the adults watching them. Both of them hinted at the similarities, the genetic composition and influence of John Watson.

Ms. Smith shook her head, offered the requisite disclaimer that they should best not get too set in how they wanted things to proceed. She tapped at Sameer's shoulder, spoke to him, and gestured toward the door. His countenance fell and his bright eyes immediately filled with tears, and John opened his mouth as if to speak but Sherlock touched him quickly, a reminder to let her handle this. A few sentences followed, and eventually Sameer nodded and set down the crayons, but he looked petrified as he followed her to the door of the flat.

++

Ms. Smith stayed only long enough after their conversation to retrieve Sameer's bag from the boot and give John some last minute directions and precautions as well as her mobile number in case contact became necessary. She knelt before Sameer and gave him similar parting instructions, pausing every so often to translate the instructions to English so John and Sherlock could also understand and know what was being conveyed. Carefully, she explained that there would definitely be a follow-up visit the next morning with likely some paperwork and re-evaluation. As she wrapped up her farewell, asking all parties if they had additional questions before she left, John could feel the faintest edges of anxiety creep up as it struck him anew about the boy's circumstance. Sameer truly must feel terribly alone already and once Ms. Smith left, he would be unable to easily communicate. And if _John himself_  was feeling nervous, he could only imagine how Sameer was doing.

She was no sooner gone than John was thinking about connecting to the internet translation service again, and he'd no sooner opened his mouth to suggest it when Sherlock spoke. "No."

"What do you mean?" John smirked. "And how did you know what I --"

"Oh please, I know how your mind works." Sherlock smirked back at him. "And it's written all over you." He paused, letting the urgency of the moment dissipate before continuing. "I think for the moment, he's fine." He gestured wide with his hand, to calm John and be the voice of reason. They both watched for a few minutes as Rosie handed off a few colours, Sameer put them away, and they briefly took turns with a particular shade of purple. "If we need to, or he's upset, then of course. But let's eat first, remember, he's hungry?"

The takeaway was quickly heated up and spread out family style on the table. John handed him a plate, then proceeded to dish his own as he explained what he was doing, even knowing Sameer wouldn't understand. Not unexpectedly, Sameer only took a very small helping, and John recalled his offering to not eat very much being in opposition with what he'd told the online interpreter that he was hungry. With a grin, John waited until he'd tried it and seemed to like it, then added some more to his plate, nodding and telling him to eat what he wanted, and as much as he wanted. Dinner was still a little awkward some of the time, but manageable with smiles and demonstrations and gestures, and Sameer did end up eating more, with both encouragement and the rest of them showing that taking seconds (and thirds) was perfectly acceptable. Rosie's presence and chattering helped, as she was not acting the least bit uncomfortable, and eventually John began to clear the table and was not surprised that Sameer had followed him into the kitchen, bringing along his empty plate and some of the containers. Sameer smiled when John said thank you and ruffled at his hair lightly, making sure to keep the contact non-threatening and safe.

It was Rosie who ended up leading Sameer up the steps to the upstairs bedroom, her bedroom, and unfolding the small chair that turned into a kid-sized bed. John and Sherlock watched from the door as she flung off her clothes and put pyjamas on, then flopped onto the chair. "This is mine," she said. "You can sleep there," she added, pointing to the bed. "The chair's more fun, anyway. Plus you're bigger." From the closet, John pulled out a pillow and blanket, which Rosie parceled out between them.

Sameer's bag contained only a few personal items, some raggedy clothes, and the book that John remembered, quite a bit worse for wear. No pyjamas, but John remedied that with one of his tee shirts, which hung almost to Sameer's knees anyway. The group went back downstairs to the loo, where Rosie demonstrated how to brush her teeth, and he copied her actions, then grinned at them all, obviously pleased with himself, and then, to Rosie's disappointment, John insisted on private turns using the toilet.

Sherlock was chuckling in the hallway at that, and when John turned his death glare toward him, the chuckle turned into full blown laughter and Sherlock went to find something suitable to use as a hallway nightlight. And to put a little space between them.

Despite the language barrier, John read one of Rosie's favourite picture books to them both, then tucked them in. He kissed Rosie good night, then perched on the edge of the bed near Sameer. Though words were not understood, John rubbed lightly at Sameer's back as he lay on his side in the bed. He expressed that he hoped Sameer felt safe here, that he was certainly entitled to a good nights sleep. There was a soft smile about Sameer's face, a bit of uncertainty, but an exhausting day and a full stomach as well, John hoped would all contribute to help him relax, settle into the bed, and fall asleep despite his nap on the couch earlier. His directives to Rosie - good night, see you in the morning - were standard, and usually all that was needed. John flicked off the light, closed the door part way, and smiled as he waggled his fingers at them both.

Sherlock was waiting downstairs. He'd carried down the book, the primer, and was looking at the pages where John had written the words, and drawn the picture of Laila. He traced his fingers over John's name, at the words 'Faithful in Adversity' that had been copied from John's tattoo. They locked eyes a moment, the enormity of what they were doing a staggering revelation, and Sherlock set the book aside.

John thought about trying to sit down and relax, but he was still too keyed up. "I think we should connect with that translator app again, tell Sameer goodnight, and maybe what to do --" Sherlock glared. "Maybe find out --"

"No."

"What if he needs something?" Sherlock simply waited out John's continuing concerns. "He has a bad dream. He has a nightmare. He wets the bed. He gets lonesome." The more John thought about it, the more alarmed he seemed to feel. "God, Sherlock, what if something hurts, and ..."

"John."

"How about --?" and he stopped talking when he saw Sherlock's pitying look. "What? I'd just like to tell him --"

"Stop. If he needs something, he'll come downstairs. He already got those instructions from Ms. Smith, remember? We'll figure it out. We'll use the translator services if - or when - we need them, and right away if we have to. I checked google translate on the mobiles for Dari, but unfortunately it's not a supported language."

"I know, but what about --"

"We'll figure it out." Sherlock threw up his hands in surrender. "Now you've got me repeating myself too. Just relax, will you?" Sherlock led John to the couch, pushed him down. "This is a huge day for all of us. Him in particular. And it might not work out, you realise. But for tonight, let's just take a deep breath, yeah?"

John could feel the logic of Sherlock's words, in not borrowing trouble, and he forced himself to at least try to listen. "Okay."

"He's already managed to survive some very hard days, yeah?" John nodded in agreement. "He was told to come get us, remember?" Sherlock's brow went up until John nodded again. "Trust me. He'll be okay. And we've handled more challenging things than this." To his credit he did not elaborate, because, yes, John would agree, the list was long of the things they'd survived, hurdles they'd overcome. "So you sit, I'll bring us some tea, decaf, because god knows, you need no stimulants right now." Still chuckling, he did exactly that, leaving John alone with his thoughts for a few minutes. "Now," Sherlock said finally, sitting next to John and taking his hand, a seriousness to his expression and his voice, "There is something very important I have to say. Quite urgent, of prime consideration," and he took a deep breath as if he was going to continue not getting to the point, laying it on real thick, until John cleared his throat to prod him. He raised a brow and considered John. "I wonder if we need to have a little reminder talk about practicing safe sex."

The last remaining bubble of anxiety in John's chest dissipated, popped, disappeared. "Oh god," he breathed, giggling, then stronger, "Piss off," he retorted with a chortle as he wrenched out of Sherlock's hold. "I'd probably lost one-quarter of my blood volume and was fighting off a blood-stream infection, you berk."

Sherlock reached for him again, with both hand and foot, touching, reassuring, reminding. Sherlock's thumb brushed lightly over John's hand, stroking his skin in small, gentle circles. "I know." A small smirk as something occurred to him, so he shared it, "Impressive, when you think about it. Though given your sex drive, I'm not at all surprised you were able to _perform."_

John cleared his throat, "Yeah well." A small chuckle, one of agreement, and John stared at where their hands were connected. "I don't think we have to have a discussion about using protection now. I mean, this is exclusive between us, and ... I mean, so ..." He looked deeply into Sherlock's eyes, and Sherlock nodded with a fond smile.

"Of course. I just felt you needed a bit of levity."

"Berk," John's smile faded somewhat but he held fast to Sherlock's hand. "This could get complicated."

"It already is, and I expect nothing less." Sherlock smiled again as they could hear some low murmuring from the upstairs, Rosie speaking, Sameer giggling. "In all fairness, I've complicated your life a time or two." Rosie's laughter, a little louder, trickled down to them as well, and it was sweet though John hoped it would be short-lived as they would hopefully quiet on their own.

John snorted in agreement, then squeezed Sherlock's hand in return. "You do believe me, when I said I had no idea. It never even crossed my mind." John sighed, remembering bits and pieces. "She, Laila, had never ... I was her first, and ... I still can't believe it."

"Of course. And I'm resisting the urge to ask you if there's a possibility there could be any more, you know, _consequences_ of your Three Continents tour that might emerge from the woodwork someday. More case workers darkening our door."

"Sherlock!"

"Because apparently you're rather virile. Even injured." He raised a hand toward where Sameer could be heard, a soft word, a quiet throaty chuckle. Sherlock's eyes were sparkling as he added to the light-hearted banter. "And while we can probably figure out something to do for another small bedroom, if there are any more we're going to have to move."

"Don't be ridiculous." John shook his head as the giggles upstairs seemed to subside. "No more surprises, best of my knowledge."

"I was teasing," Sherlock said, letting go of John's hand and wrapping both arms around John, sideways there on the couch, bringing their bodies together as much as he could, holding firmly, securely. "You know I am, right?" They shared a warm, easy kiss, one of companionship and of commitment. A brief peck, then deeper, and another involving the hint of tongue and teeth. A playful, teasing kiss of togetherness and closeness.

One nod, and John eased back, the grin on his face indicating that he was indeed feeling quite a bit better. He knew, as he already stated, that this was already not an easy situation and would likely get far more complicated. He also knew that together they would navigate these uncharted waters and figure out what was best for everyone, Sameer in particular, to the best of their ability. Sherlock gazed for a few long minutes into the face of John Watson, appreciating the colour and the beauty and the uniqueness of John's eyes.

Bright, blue, dark at times, sincere. Wise, caring, discerning. _Beautiful_. He realised the depths of all that John's eyes had already seen, all they would yet see together, the perspective and his particular ability that spurred Sherlock to be good, to be more than he was, to rise to the occasion, to be less obnoxious. To be a better person. He'd told him once that he was a conductor of light. Those eyes ... were presently gazing back fondly at Sherlock. 

Sameer was fortunate, actually, to have been given such a precious, genetic gift.

John's eyes. _John's eyes._

Sherlock leaned in again, closer, his cheek resting against John's temple.

John's eyes closed, peaceful and secure.

Until there was more giggling from upstairs. Giggling from two distinct sources.

And then John's eyes were twinkling as he pulled away, separating, and he stood up. "Let me go try to settle them." Hesitantly, he looked heavenward, thinking perhaps they would settle. He was rewarded with a scuffle and a thud, and sighed as he began to head upstairs.

"I'll bring up the computer, but only if you need."

The giggling grew louder, and he could hear the springs of the mattress creaking slightly as, apparently, Rosie was teaching Sameer about jumping on the bed. "I should be okay, but thanks."

Sherlock opened the laptop anyway, but not to the application he'd used earlier. Instead, he located the spreadsheet, and stealthily moved to the bedroom doorway. The last thing John would be expecting after this quite unusual, this very unexpected twist to their day, was to be _pounced_ upon.

So much the better. Sherlock smiled to himself, waiting and listening as John moved about upstairs, apparently soothing, talking, settling. His voice that trickled down the stairs was calm, relaxing, and apparently effective. All was quiet again when he heard John descend the stairs, check the lock on the flat door, turn out the last remaining light, and pad down the hallway toward where he waited inside the bedroom.

_Oh yes._

++

John opened his eyes a bit later, mind instantly engaged and wondering why he'd awakened. Sherlock slept next to him, on his side, head tucked into the pillow, curls pressed flat on one side, mouth open just a little. For the moment, he was deeply asleep, unmoving, relaxed. Sated, John thought, and happy. The laptop had been relegated safely to the bedside floor, spreadsheet a little more filled out than it had been yesterday. Tabling his thoughts about the cause and effect on his satisfaction and endurance when pounced upon, he slid carefully to the edge of the bed, making sure the sheets did not rifle and allow cool air to rouse the sleeping form of the scientist. The experimenter. His fellow adventurer.

Smiling, John grabbed a pair of soft, flannel sleep pants, stepping into them in the hallway with silent movements and padded gingerly up the stairs. All was quiet, but he knew he would be just laying awake wondering, so he opted to simply go up and check, to see for himself that all was well. The hallway nightlight made the path easy, and the bedroom door was ajar already.

Both kids were asleep, Rosie on her back on the chair-turned-cot, blanket up to her chin, stuffed animal nudged in her sleep to the floor already. John tiptoed in to replace it. Sameer was rolled up on his side, head still on the pillow, his dark hair framing his face, also breathing easily. John avoided a few obstacles on the floor and went back to the doorway, stood a moment to enjoy the solitude, the peace, the fact that both were sleeping. Or so he thought.

No noise, no signs of wakefulness, no change in respiratory pattern, but John's eyes fixed again on Sameer. A faint glittering was visible on his face. Eyes open, then. Blink. Blink. He seemed barely awake, very calm, body still quite relaxed.

John smiled, nodded what he hoped was in reassurance. Sameer smiled back and his eyelids drifted slowly closed again.

A shoulder leaning against the doorframe, John stayed where he was and watched Sameer's breathing even out, deepen, relax, slow a bit as he dropped back off to sleep. It remained quite peaceful and calm. Serene.

A creak on the floor behind him, the quiet sound of a footstep on carpet, and John did not startle. Even when a chin came to rest lightly against the side of his face and a warm hand slid around his waist. Sherlock's breath was warm, his body solid up against John, his lips comforting as he stayed, watching, both reassuring John and being reassured.

"They're fine," Sherlock breathed, the words almost silent, a mist, a vapour. John nodded again, letting his shoulders relax and his body sink back a little against Sherlock before both of them, by mutual agreement, eased from the doorway to creep silently down the stairs again. It was still quite early, too early for anything reasonable except the bedroom, and they crawled under the covers again. Sherlock reached out, twining his long fingers into John's. "They're fine," he repeated, with enough conviction that John turned his head to look at him. Sherlock's eyes and his gaze were steady and believable, and he added, "And whatever comes of it, we're fine too."

"I don't suppose you let your --" _brother know._

"Mycroft will be here first thing."

"Did you ask him?"

Sherlock's chuckle was low and rumbly. "I didn't need to. He'll be here." 

"Of course he will." John pushed his toes under Sherlock's calf to warm them up. After all this time, Sherlock no longer fussed about it.

Now that they were laying down, Sherlock's baritone voice particularly in the middle of the night, was gravelly and coarse. "We'll get it sorted, you know. Whatever is best."

"I know," John breathed back, turning on his side to find that comfortable spot in Sherlock's embrace. He tucked his knee up across Sherlock's leg, their bodies making minor, subconscious, somewhat automatic adjustments until they both had found that sweet, intimate place. 

He closed his eyes.

 

_~fin~_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Some studies have found that women actually do distinguish colours better than men, just like Sherlock mentioned in his early, random text message. This is due to the placement and morphology of a specific, sensitive type of M-cone cells. On the other hand, men tend to have more visual acuity when it comes to detecting motion. It explains the different usual skill set of hunters versus gatherers.
> 
> Human trafficking is indeed a significant social and cultural problem in Afghanistan, according to the World Health Organization. Sameer would have been at high risk to be "recruited" for human, child labour, or sexual trafficking had things progressed differently.
> 
> Translator services, from language lines (using a double handset that connects via phone to a translator) to actual Skype calls to a live translator (using an iPad), are remarkably easy to use and practical.
> 
> ++
> 
> Squint, if you will, at the details about what would actually have happened to an orphan refugee. Leaving him with strangers, or almost strangers, would have been ridiculous actually. This was very much fictional/poetic license that really ran far away from reality. A lot of the specifics about what Sameer knew (or didn't know) has been left intentionally vague. I'm sure they'll straighten it all out tomorrow. ;-)
> 
> I'm fairly certain Captain Watson would not have felt the need to get a RAMC tattoo, but it seemed a nice detail to add that yes, it really was Laila and John. It's kind of a hot imagining, though. Also regarding the military flashback, there are some videos and descriptions of sandstorms in the Middle East that are terribly frightening to think about, particularly if in a structure that doesn't offer a lot of protection.
> 
> That said, I hope you enjoyed this. To be clear, I understand that MF's eyes can appear gray, blue, or brown depending on whatever magic is happening at the moment. For as much as BC's eyes get quite a lot of attention - _well-deserved attention to be certain_ \- I found a photo of MF with either contacts or edits giving him _bright blue eyes_ that was just as striking, just as wonderful. And out of my musings came this piece. There is also a really amazing photo of how I would picture the dark skinned, blue eyed lad Sameer, but I don't own it and am hesitant to post another person's work here. It can be found on this website: [click here](http://afritorial.com/black-people-with-blue-eyes/)
> 
> Thanks for reading. As is my usual request, if there are mistakes or typos (or details unresolved), it's probably due to over-editing - please let me know gently and I will gladly fix or clarify.


End file.
